


Pretend with Me

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Follower Appreciation [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oh yes-that trope, Sexual Tension, feelings are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Connor flopped comically to the floor when Hank called it for that day’s workout, “You are evil.”Hank’s head popped into his field of vision, peering down at him, “Am I now?”Connor nodded, “I’m not going to be able to move tomorrow.”“Kid, you’re gonna be feeling it for a week.” Connor’s grumpy retort died in his throat when Hank held out a helping hand and offered him a wink, “I have that kind of effect on people.”Connor had been immensely glad his face was already red from exercising. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if Hank was hitting on him. Then again, Hank had a reputation for being a massive flirt. When his own relationship with Markus had taken a rocky turn, he didn’t have the time to dwell on it.Hand-in-hand with Hank now, pretending as if he’s his date, proves to be a terrible time for the memory to wriggle loose and run rampant in his brain.__A little follower appreciation ficlet for a fake dating/relationship trope prompt. I meant for this to be a lot shorter, buuuuut I got carried away. It was such a cute idea :)





	Pretend with Me

“This has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” Hank grouses as he fidgets with his bowtie.

“Smile,” Connor hisses from behind a toothy grin as he waves to his adoring (if not a bit rabid) fans.

When Hank fiddles with the bowtie again, Connor squeezes the fingers knitted with his own. Hank’s hand is slightly damp and it helps to reign in Connor’s irritation. He forgets that not everybody is used to being the center of attention, dozens of cameras flashing while reporters scream out questions at random.

He’d thought more than once that maybe this ruse was a mistake. He didn’t _need_ a date for the premiere, truly. He just wanted one—he didn’t want to walk the red carpet alone when Markus would surely have some slinky blonde on his arm.

Markus had a type and Connor knew it well. He’d been well outside Markus’ usual taste. They were of a height with one and other and Connor’s features were darker than Markus was known for wooing. Looking back, Connor could see the hallmarks of failure lying in wait.

He’d spent most of their time together trying to morph into what Markus wanted. He didn’t blame the man; he’d certainly never asked Connor to change. Even so, he could feel the growing rift when Markus’ expression would fall at some quirk of Connor’s or a hidden perceived failure of his own.

It was such a small, silly thing, but Connor can say with certainty that their relationship was over when Markus couldn’t carry him with ease. It had been a jest that turned frigidly unfunny. Markus liked to feel larger than life both on and off the screen. He could pull it off, but Connor could feel Markus’ arms tremble beneath the weight of him. From that moment on, Markus grew more distant and laughed with less ease.

Connor chased him with growing desperation until he reread the messages he’d been sending. He wasn’t this man—this anxious, beseeching shadow of a person. He shouldn’t have to beg someone to want him. In the end, Connor sundered their relationship and Markus had all but exhaled in relief.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Markus had his palm on Connor’s cheek when he said the words. It was worse than if he’d slapped him. Try as he might, Connor can’t bring himself to hate Markus. The star-struck awe was certainly gone, but who is he to judge someone for having insecurities? Markus felt small and inadequate around Connor, especially as Connor’s career began to take off and rival that of his lover’s.

“It’s complicated,” was all Connor said in explanation when Hank had asked him why he needed his personal trainer to go as his plus one to the premiere of his second big movie.

“Shouldn’t you have people crawling all over you now that you’re some hot shot?” His tone was light and Connor didn’t take offense. They’d known each other for years as Connor worked to sculpt his stubbornly willowy physique into leading man buffness. While he’d never be considered brawny, Hank had helped him pack on enough muscle to stand out. Hank had seen Connor struggle to compete against more stereotypical leading men and have to accept smaller roles or none at all.

Hank had been the second person he told when he made his first big break. Markus had been first and Connor chose to ignore how some of the light went out of his soon-to-be ex-boyfriend’s eyes at the news.

Outside of Markus, Hank was the only other person Connor felt comfortable with when it came to his personal life. They’d settled into an easy friendship and Connor had seen Hank weather two divorces in the years he’d known him.

Hank had a bit of a reputation himself. He was a highly sought after personal trainer in the celebrity world for two very distinct reasons. First and foremost, he could transform his client’s physique like no other trainer in the industry. Second and only ever whispered about behind cupped hands, he was known for his prowess in bed.

The first divorce Hank claimed full responsibility for, “She was a mistake from the word go. Shouldn’t’ve married her. I knew it then and I saw the divorce coming before she even walked down the aisle.”

“So why’d…ya…do it?” Connor grunted out the question around chest presses as Hank casually spotted for him. It wouldn’t do to allow a barbell to crush his client’s windpipe.

“Ehhh, I was younger and dumber then,” Hank had mused before helping Connor re-rack the bar. He’d seen his pale, freckled arms shake and didn’t want to risk injuring his client.

“Hank, it was five years ago,” Connor deadpanned in response, accepting a sweat rag from Hank to mop across his brow.

Brandishing Connor’s own ice-laden water bottle at him like a weapon, Hank admonished, “I don’t need to take relationship flak from someone whose age doesn’t even include the word _thirty_ yet.”

Connor grinned, used to this game, “You know full well I turn thirty in three months.”

“How sweet. Twenty-nine and three quarters. My aching knees are encouraging me to smack you,” his tone was light and he wafted his hand back and forth near Connor’s face.

Despite his fatigue from the workout, Connor hopped back a few paces, “Well, you’d have to catch me first, _old ma_ —,” Hank took the opportunity to squirt a stream of frigid water in Connor’s face.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Connor’s choking eventually faded into laughter. He let the matter of Hank’s age rest. He knew, despite Hank’s claims otherwise, he was feeling apprehensive about his passing years. His forty-seventh birthday had come and gone without much fanfare and Connor only knew because another client—obviously a close friend—had made a passing comment about it.

While Hank still boasted arms layered with thick ropes of muscles and thighs strong enough to crush a man’s head, his stomach lacked the chiseled abs he was used to and was a bit too soft for his liking. He’d grumbled about it on more than one occasion. Connor had quipped if he was stricter with his diet, he could have them back. Hank made him do sixty burpees in retaliation.

Still, Connor preferred Hank this way and told him as much, “You look more human—more attainable.” Hank had stared and then burst out laughing. Connor had colored hotly, realizing the implication of his words, “I didn’t mean like _that_. I just—I meant…you know, results?” He faded off grumbling about pigheaded trainers with their minds in the gutter. He tried not to think too hard about why it flustered him so much.

It took Connor longer to ask about the second divorce. Hank had been reluctant bordering on recalcitrant when Connor had first asked about it. With six months of distance between then and now, he figured he could risk it. Hank took his time answering, but eventually he sighed and shook his head.

“I was chasing love. Bit me in the ass.” Connor tilted his head, an unruly and sweat-damp curl flopping onto his forehead.

When Hank didn’t elaborate, Connor had nudged, “How so?”

Hank sat heavily on the bench next to Connor, looking down at the ground between his knees, “He was ladder climbing and I didn’t see it until it was too late. He didn’t want me. Just wanted to use my connections. Once he’d climbed as far as he could reach by standing on my shoulders, he left.”

Connor had waffled on a reply. He knew Hank didn’t take kindly to what he perceived as coddling. In the end, Connor had settled on gripping his knee and giving it a little shake, “That sucks. A lot. I’m sorry.” Before he could pull it away, Hank had rested his much larger Hand over Connor’s and given it a squeeze.

“Yeah, it does. I’m getting over it. Thanks.”

Connor knew it was the end of that conversation when Hank withdrew his hand to slap it between Connor’s shoulder blades, “Boxing time, pretty boy.” Connor groaned but dutifully followed. Hank led him through a few circuits, holding the bag at first until Connor tired and his punches grew weaker.

Connor flopped comically to the floor when Hank called it for that day’s workout, “You are evil.”

Hank’s head popped into his field of vision, peering down at him, “Am I now?”

Connor nodded, “I’m not going to be able to move tomorrow.”

“Kid, you’re gonna be feeling it for a week.” Connor’s grumpy retort died in his throat when Hank held out a helping hand and offered him a wink, “I have that kind of effect on people.”

Connor had been immensely glad his face was already red from exercising. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if Hank was hitting on him. Then again, Hank had a reputation for being a massive flirt. When his own relationship with Markus had taken a rocky turn, he didn’t have the time to dwell on it.

Hand-in-hand with Hank now, pretending as if he’s his date, proves to be a terrible time for the memory to wriggle loose and run rampant in his brain. Hank’s hand drifting to readjust his tie for the third time since stepping out of the limo brings his focus back to the present.

“Allow me,” Connor’s voice is satin smooth as he reaches up, tugging the bow free with practiced ease. It unravels under his fingers and he pocket the offending garment. Unfastening the uppermost button, chest hair blossoms into view.

Connor gives Hank’s acting chops a mental nod of credit when he remains casual and at ease even as he whispers the panicked question, “What are you doing?”

Connor presses his palm to Hank’s chest and leans in as if to share a secret, “I know this isn’t your thing. I want you to feel comfortable.” Connor pulls back and, to his surprise, Hank’s hand finds his before he has to reach out for him.

For the premiere, Connor knows he doesn’t have to answer any questions not related to the movie. He gets a few rude inquiries about his split with Markus, but he keeps his cool. More than once, he turns to smile at Hank in response before prompting the reporter to ask about the film. The implied _or piss off_ is clear in his tone and they’re wise enough to shift gears.

Even when seated and the lights go out, Hank’s hand remains in his. He has a confusing pang of disappointment when Hank releases his grip to rise and let someone exit the row partway through the film. He has an equally baffling quiver of glee course up his spine when Hank takes his hand once more, threading their fingers together.

With a sharp cerebral slap, Connor tells himself to get it together. Hank is his friend. Connor is lonely. It’s wishful thinking and nothing more. Hank’s thumb idly rubbing circles into the top of Connor’s hand is a kind gesture of solidarity, clearly. Hank’s returned pressure when Connor leans into him slightly is a show of support. It would be obvious to anyone, he’s certain.

Telling himself it’s nothing more than an act for anyone potentially watching—despite the theater being darker than pitch and all eyes glued to the screen—he rests his head against Hank’s shoulder. Hank goes rigid and Connor’s on the verge of faking a startle as if he’d simply fallen asleep when Hank noses briefly at his hair. Connor gives his hand an answering squeeze.

 _Yes_ , the gesture conveys, _this is intentional._

Things will be awkward when they retreat to the privacy of their limo, Connor’s fairly sure. He pushes the concern off for later. The movie ends to uproarious applause and he snags one more celebratory champagne than is likely advised. He doesn’t care. Hank’s hand is somehow around his waist and he likes the feeling of being tucked against him.

The moment he’d forgotten he was dreading passes without issue. Markus spots him from across the room, his enigmatic eyes demanding Connor look at him. With a wave and a nod, Markus returns to whatever conversation he’d been having with a thin blonde man. Connor recognizes him as the assistant director—Simon something or other. He could never remember the man’s name. He is exactly Markus’ type.

Connor feels a pressure ease in his chest that there hadn’t been a scene and Hank murmurs, “Well, that coulda gone a lot worse.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Connor whispers back, acutely aware of how much closer Hank is standing to him than when they first arrived at the showing.

With the night drawing to a close, Connor chews his lip on their way to the limo. He can’t ignore whatever is happening. He has the oddest sensation that it can’t wait, that the moment will fade and Hank will return to flirty-friend-trainer if Connor doesn’t make a move.

He slides into the vehicle, still uncertain how to proceed. It feels lame to ask Hank on a date while they are still, presumably, on a date no matter how fake it might have started. Deciding honesty is best, he turns to speak only to find Hank already looking at him and leaning in much too close.

The lock of hair that never obeys Connor’s comb had come free at some point during the premiere. Hank’s hand rises slowly as if to give Connor time to intercede or rebuff the action. He doesn’t move save for the slight parting of his lips.

Hank brushes the curl aside before large fingers stroke down Connor’s cheek, “Think we need to talk.” His voice is rough and low.

Connor’s breathing is shallow and it takes a moment for him to respond, “I think you may be right.”

Hank’s hand lingers to cradle Connor’s face, his thumb drifting nearer to the corner of Connor’s mouth. It takes a massive feat of will not to turn into Hank’s palm and kiss the skin made rough by years of lifting weights.

Something of Connor’s thoughts must show in his eyes. Hank mutters _Christ_ beneath his breath before leaning in half an inch more.

“Connor,” his tone lacks his usual self-assurance as if he’s on uncertain ground. The word sounds more like a question than his name and Connor surges forward like a frothing wave to meet Hank’s lips. For all his strength, Hank’s touch is gentle, his kiss soft. Heat flares to life in Connor’s chest before racing up and out to coat his skin in the feathery trappings of bliss.

When the kiss ends, the driver of the limo is watching them in the rearview mirror with distinct discomfort on his face. Connor tries and fails to contain a fit of laughter when he catches the man’s relieved expression at their disentangling arms.

They talk in quiet voices for the remainder of the drive, trying to navigate this new and fragile thing between them. Hank is still emotionally friable and Connor is wary of moving too fast. They both experienced recent romantic burns; they agree to take things slow.

Within a month, Hank has a toothbrush at Connor’s place. Over the next several weeks, Connor pilfers so many of Hank’s shirts that Hank starts doing laundry there as well. Connor likes the way the sleeves fall to his fingertips and how the hem hangs halfway down his thighs. Hank likes it too even if he won’t admit it.

They learn to manage the ebb and flow of togetherness and time apart with the demands of Connor’s job. Connor gives Hank a key under the pretense of checking in on the property when he’s away for extended periods of time. Hank always sleeps there when Connor is gone. The place smells like him and it feels less lonely than when he’s in his own apartment.

“You could live here, you know,” Connor murmurs into his ear on the evening of his eventful return after an extended trip to film his next movie. Evidence of his welcome home litters the house: a shoe by the front door, the other on the stair tread; a belt looped inexplicably around the ceiling fan while its accompanying pants drape haphazardly over a window curtain rod. He gives up locating his shirt after ten minutes. He’ll find it a week later behind the headboard, but he doesn’t know that yet.

For now, all he knows is he wants Hank here always.

Hank wants it too so he agrees.

It’s fast, much faster than either planned for, but happiness isn’t a thing that can be put on a schedule.

Hank makes sure to tell Connor he loves him as if there was any doubt. Connor flushes hotly under his freckles, lending him the appearance of a flustered watermelon. His response is lost in Hank’s shoulder where he’s buried his face. Hank feels Connor’s lips form the words _I love you too_ into his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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